First it was hell. Would only a few be saved while everyone else remained eternally separated from God? Then it was other faiths. Was my religion the only correct one? A shining light amidst a sea of darkness? Questions about diversity and inclusion soon followed. Were LGBTQ+ relationships really less valid than heterosexual ones? Did healing paradigms imply–reductivistically–that disabilities were simply “problems” needing to be “fixed”?

I began to reflect upon these questions in earnest over a decade ago. The religious worldview which I had previously adopted was slowly unravelling. I did not know it at the time, but I was deconstructing.

Since the French-Algerian philosopher Jacques Derrida first coined the term, deconstruction has taken on a variety of distinct meanings. In this essay, I use it to refer to the faith deconstruction movement: a mainly online constellation of voices originating particularly among those from Evangelical backgrounds in English-speaking countries who are re-examining and/or rejecting religious beliefs they once held with certitude.

An increasing number of pastors, worship leaders, theologians, and ordinary laypeople are deconstructing.

In her qualitative study, (Un)Certain (2023), Olivia Jackson gives this emerging public a voice. Jackson’s book is full of stories like mine. Probing questions or unexpected events compel her interviewees to question foundational religious frameworks.

Some reject or reinterpret core doctrines. Others cite social justice concerns as a basis for rethinking authority. Many do both. Few completely return to their old faith commitments. A significant number abandon religion altogether. Some “reconstruct” from the ground up, adopting new outlooks and spiritual practices which retain elements of what had gone before alongside fresh perspectives.

Over the last few years, I have noticed a clear pattern appearing in many reconstruction stories. 

Those who reconstruct often reject or reconceptualize notions of Divine omnipotence (the view that God is “all-powerful,” or “can do anything”) while continuing to say that a God or higher power is actively involved in the world.

For example, many embrace modern-day mystics such as Richard Rohr, Cynthia Bourgeault, or Alan Watts, figures who avoid rigid authoritarian images of God and allow for more dynamism. At the same time, others adopt more fluid and relational portrayals of the Divine, often drawing from versions of Process thought and Panentheism, which opt for an impactful yet non-coercive deity over one who is in absolute control.

This essay is not a defense of the writers or philosophical tenets mentioned above. Rather, it speaks more broadly to the trend away from a God of control. I think it is no accident. I believe the rejection of a God who is all-powerful for one who is empowering, persuasive, and collaborative reflects an underlying intuition shaped by concerns about what it means to trust in light of personal experiences and emerging values.

Breakdowns in trust–in religious leaders, sacred texts, or institutions–are central to deconstruction experiences. It should therefore be little surprise that reconstruction often involves trusting in new, more critical, ways.

While this argument is relevant to those who, like me, have gone through deconstruction and reconstruction, it also matters to anyone concerned with understanding evolving religious landscapes in the Anglosphere (Britain, the United States, Australia, Canada, etc). Religious change affects who gets elected, chances of peaceful co-existence, and our collective ability to tackle large-scale existential threats (such as global warming). Understanding its underlying causes is therefore in all our interests.

Read “Tread Lightly in Thin Places“

Why Deconstruct Your Faith?

In the opening paragraphs of their book, God After Deconstruction (2024), theologians Thomas Jay Oord and Tripp Fuller discuss Gary/Jeannie’s intersex story.

Gary/Jeannie, who was born with ambiguous genitals and had neither XX nor XY chromosomes, was assigned male at birth and was accordingly raised as a boy. When puberty hit, she felt like a woman and ultimately decided to adopt the name Jeannie. Jeannie moved forward in life identifying as female, much to the ridicule of those around her. 

One moment in her story stood out. While identifying as Gary, she summoned the courage to tell a church youth pastor her medical history and desire to be female. However, what she thought was said in confidence was soon passed on to other church leaders. This became a turning point in both her gender transition and her faith deconstruction journey.

Jeannie’s painful account parallels others. There is a pattern.

Well-meaning individuals voice an intellectual doubt or moral concern, or share a difficult experience, only to have their trust betrayed by their own faith communities; often, but not always, by those in positions of power. Thankfully, the outcomes of these all-too-common situations are normally less traumatic and damaging than they were for Jeannie. But the story arc remains the same. At some point, a breakdown in trust means that things can never go back to the way they were before.

Deconstruction is the only way forward.

The philosopher Carolyn McLeod argues that trust typically involves someone relying upon others to do something for them. Because reliance is central, risk and vulnerability are also present. Risk and vulnerability show up in many real-world instances of trust.

For example, if Alice trusts Sara to be punctual, she risks the possibility that her friend will fail to live up to her expectations and consequently becomes vulnerable to experiencing emotions such as disappointment. Despite its hazardous nature, trust is an unavoidable part of human life. Children and vulnerable adults must trust their carers will look after them. Airplane passengers must trust their pilots are competent flyers. Patients must trust their doctors to tell the truth.

While faith can often feel ethereal and otherworldly, trust is practical and relational.

Annette Baier asserts that trusting normally involves an assumption that the entrusted has goodwill towards the truster. Trusters do not just think that those they rely upon will do as they wish. They also believe that trusted persons want the best for them. Baier’s perspective helps explain why relationships of all kinds often come to an abrupt end when trust is broken.

The people and organizations that trusters once thought were on their side turn out not to be. In a religious context, this often manifests as deconstruction.

The etymological origin of the word “Gospel” is “Good News.” Believers are often encouraged to celebrate the “Good News” and share it with others. But when trust breaks down, the Gospel stops being Good News. For many people going through deconstruction (like Jeannie), no news is better news.

Read “Natural Mysticism and Its Dangerous Allure”

Divine Goodwill

Many who deconstruct are done and dusted. Their relationship with organized religion comes to an end. This is understandable. Those who choose to reconstruct must face difficult, emotionally charged questions: How can I trust my community again? Will they ever look at me with respect? Should I now practice my faith in a different way?

The most pressing lines of inquiry concern God’s character: Does God hate me? How does God feel about my deconstruction? Is God on my side? These questions hint at a deeper, more nuanced issue: Does God have goodwill (a la Baier) towards me? Is God trustworthy?

The prospect that the creator of the universe and the most powerful being in existence might not care about the well-being and aspirations of those who follow them is a chilling idea that sounds more reminiscent of Lovecraftian horror than serious theology.

Astute readers might argue that God is good by definition and therefore must want what is best for everyone. This position, however, does not capture the diverse ways in which the word God is used in common speech. It also runs the risk of ignoring personal and experiential questions about Divine trustworthiness by focusing on whether God is good only in an absolute or objective sense.

While reflecting upon the reasons for their public deconstructions over the doctrine of hell in the 2019 documentary, The Heretic, former megachurch pastors Rob Bell and Carlton Pearson get to the heart of issues surrounding God’s trustworthiness in a refreshingly accessible way:

Bell: “If you from an early age are told that you might get tortured forever in hell, essentially what you hear as a kid is the universe is not a safe place. . . and the deepest, most powerful, forces in reality might actually in the end align themselves against me. That’s what the psyche or the soul hears.”

Pearson: “You can never trust that God because that God is untrustworthy. You could tick him off and he’ll change his attitude towards you.”

What if the kind of God Bell and Pearson describe actually existed?

In an essay I wrote for Philosophy Now, I argue that even if this were the case, following such a being would be unwise. Alongside getting “ticked off” by the slightest thing, an untrustworthy God could easily deceive others or pretend to offer protection while planning to betray. The risks and vulnerabilities involved in trusting this type of God are exorbitant.

Instead, thoughtful faith commitments–which involve real-life decisions to align oneself with the Divine rather than simply believing in the abstract–require that believers have reasons to think that God’s values, hopes, and dreams resonate with their own.

In short, it matters that God is morally relatable.

Those who reconstruct often learn to separate God from people who claim to speak for the Divine. They develop a sense that God can make sufficient space for them even when pastors, friends, or religious texts cannot. They begin to trust again. This is not just a matter of prioritizing feelings over so-called “facts.” It’s about taking appropriate risks and then trusting in responsible and conscientious ways. Checking the compatibility between one’s personal values and the God one trusts is something which every reflective theist should do.

However, in stories of deconstruction and reconstruction, the necessity of this practice shows up again and again. This emphasis indicates that God is being thought about in new ways.

Read “Building a Faith Community Without a Belief in God“

Sovereign Lord or Faithful Advocate?

Exploring whether God is trustworthy for a particular individual or community (in this case, the faith deconstruction movement) is a complex task that requires evaluating the relationship between specific values, expectations, experiences, and concepts of deity.

Instead of offering a full-scale analysis of how reconstructing believers trust, this essay simply identifies one broad, trust-informed, faith shift: A move away from belief in a God of control towards one who is active in the world but cannot intervene single-handedly to save the day, deus ex machina.

In biblical terms, this can be thought of as a reemphasis upon depictions of God as a faithful advocate rather than a sovereign lord.

In Scripture, God is described as faithful (Hebrew emunah, ne’eman, Ancient Greek pistos). Divine faithfulness may also be translated as reliability, steadfastness, or trustworthiness. It describes both the Divine character and how people groups expect God will be responsive to them, echoing Baier’s definition of trustworthiness: A trustworthy God advocates for ordinary people who trust them rather than just being faithful to their own promises.

In the Old Testament, the Israelites are reminded that God is on their side (Deuteronomy 7:9, Psalm 105:8-10, Lamentations 3:22–23). A similar theme appears in the New Testament in relation to the early Church (1 Corinthians 1:9, 2 Thessalonians 3:3, 1 John 1:9).

I sense that depictions of God as a faithful advocate are likely to resonate with those going through deconstruction and reconstruction. This is not without precedent. Other groups who have felt hurt and marginalized by the assumptions of establishment religion have needed a God who is faithful to and advocates for them, rather than one who is simply good in a universal or disinterested sense.

A good example is James Cone’s Black Power Theology. Cone imagines God as a liberator, fighting on behalf of the oppressed. While deconstruction experiences rarely qualify as examples of oppression (which are uniquely destructive), feelings of stigmatization and isolation are common. Understanding God as a faithful advocate speaks to these emotions directly.

Describing God as a faithful advocate makes little sense if everything is as it should be. Only victims and those with unmet desires need an advocate to represent them. Nor can trustworthy advocates be complicit in victimization or neglect. This fact paints conceptions of God as a sovereign lord in a new light.

Here, God’s kingdom becomes an alternative movement, resistant to harmful norms and systems wherever they may be. God does not sit back and let evil events happen or ordain them to take place, but instead stands with those who ask dangerous questions and highlight injustices even when there are no quick-fix solutions.

This God always wants to heal wounds and right wrongs, but, unfortunately, is not always able to.

Few who reconstruct say God is on their side in a triumphalist sense. They are not interested in a God who picks sides, who chooses to align with one group over another. But they are looking for one who is morally relatable and, therefore, trustworthy. Faithful advocates do not need to be in complete control but must be willing to show up and care.

Here, priority is given to who God is and where God can be found rather than what God can do. This type of faith leaves room for the unpredictable and the unorthodox. For many reconstructing, emotional safety and moral resonance trump doctrinal assurance.

Read “Your Job and Cancer Are Nothing: Part II”

Why A Relatable God Matters

In the Cooperative Baptist publication, Word & Way, Robert D. Cornwall addresses a common misconception about the nature of faith deconstruction. He writes:

“The deconstruction process results from a variety of concerns that include questions about sexuality, gender, science, social justice, the reality of evil (theodicy). . .. While the surface concerns might not seem theological in nature, how we respond to these questions often involves the way we read sacred texts and envision the nature of God.”

The faith deconstruction movement is not just about protest. It can open up new and challenging theological questions in fresh ways. This essay has shown how deconstruction experiences can pose unique questions about what it means to trust God.

More and more reconstructing believers are beginning to echo William James, who, in A Pluralistic Universe (1909), claimed God is finite–limited“ either in power or in knowledge, or in both at once.”

They are looking to God as a source of spiritual growth and empowerment rather than one who will step in to save them in a fundamentally unsafe world. They recognize that God can only be trusted to make a positive impact when the Divine is not held responsible for micromanaging all events in life.

The existence of this emerging sensibility matters for at least three reasons.

Firstly, it signals a move away from moral outsourcing–a psychological practice where responsibility for ethical decisions is given to external sources such as politicians, machines, or even the Divine. Deconstruction involves questioning authority, even God’s authority. It prompts those going through it to ask, “Can I really trust this?” Authentic trust first requires identifying one’s values, hopes, and personal boundaries. Before reconstruction can happen, one must have already garnered some sense of how they think one ought to and ought not to live. This is not a parental or compliant approach to faith. It’s honest and integrated.

The second reason relates to the first. This new public is more aware of its moral responsibilities. Moving away from a God of control involves recognizing that global problems like climate change are not necessarily in hand. Failure to look after our planet, advance human rights, or promote the well-being of ourselves or others carries real risks. A trustworthy God of empowering compassion may speak to us in persuasive and compelling ways but cannot wave a magical wand and put everything to rights. A proactive human response is necessary.

Put simply, without working together to bring about the common good, we are doomed!

Finally, the creative dimensions of reconstruction offer yet another example of how the secularization narrative has failed. Instead of walking away from faith altogether, a significant number of those who deconstruct are choosing to reshape and reimagine faith in innovative ways. The image of God that emerges out of reconstruction may not look traditional, but is nevertheless meaningful and impactful.

From my own experience, I know it can feel more honest and hard-earned. It is born out of persistent wrestling with the issues that matter most–such as what it means to pursue truth, justice, and hope. Reconstructed spiritualities are here to stay, and here to better the world for all of us.